


Dean's Deductions

by Mishapocalyptic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Crossover, Demons, Gen, Sassy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 14:30:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishapocalyptic/pseuds/Mishapocalyptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam take on a case in England and pair up with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Despite Sherlock's obvious distaste for the American pair, the four seem to make a good team. Let's see if they can figure out what's going on. Is it an ordinary murder, or something far more sinister?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dean's Deductions

“Dean you hate planes,” Sam stated bluntly as Dean returned to his brother’s side brandishing two plane tickets to London, England.

“Yeah, but dude,” Dean started, “we’re talking about a job in England. You know, home of Sherlock Holmes?” Dean hoped that maybe his literature reference might get Sam on board; after all, Sam was a nerd.

“Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character. And besides, what are we even hunting?” Sam took his plane ticket and started to walk toward customs, Dean trotting to walk alongside his baby brother.

“Ummm… I’m not sure yet.” Sam began to huff, but Dean quickly continued. “However, I think it’s a vengeful spirit! I mean, normal people don’t clog arteries with peanut butter. That’s not even possible. Is it?” Sam laughed and stopped walking, turning to look Dean in the eye.

“No. It’s not possible. How would you get it into the blood stream? It’s too thick for a syringe. We’ve got to be dealing with some kind of spirit. Good call.”

After an hour or so, the Winchesters were on a plane to London, England. Dean tried to keep his cool, and he even laughed when the stewardess explained the oxygen masks, hoping it would make him seem less scared. Sam noticed Dean’s uneasiness. He didn’t say anything. He figured Dean would ask him for help if it became too much. Fortunately for him, Dean nodded off after fifteen minutes. Sam figured it was a good idea and followed suit.

Sam was awoken by someone shaking him by the shoulders. It was Dean. His eyes were wide with panic, and his breathing was shallow.

“Dean. Dean!” Sam whisper-shouted. “What’s wrong?”

“Sam, I woke up, and the plane was moving!” Sam gave his older brother an incredulous look. “Across the ocean.” Dean’s emphasis was hysterical to Sam. Sam covered his mouth to keep from laughing. He checked his watch. It was 3 A.M. ET. Which meant everyone else was asleep. Poor Dean.

“Dean, that’s what planes do. You knew when you took this job that we’d be flying ‘across the pond,’ as they say.” Dean glared at Sam. Sam had a point, but Dean would never concede that to his brother. Dean settled back in his seat, eyes fixed on his shoes, hoping to steady his breathing. He soon fell asleep again.

When the plane landed at Heathrow Airport, this time Dean was the one being shaken awake. Sam had been trying for ten minutes to wake his brother, and by that time, everyone else had gotten off the plane. A stewardess waited patiently, a kind but obviously fake smile plastered on her face.

“DEAN!” Sam finally shouted before jumping out of the way. Dean thrashed, freaking out.

“What?! What’s happening?! Where is everybody? Don’t tell me they were sacrificed!” Dean began to splutter ridiculous things, and Sam sat next to him again.

“Dean. Dean.” Sam kept repeating his brother’s name.

“What?!” Dean finally stopped speaking out of annoyance.

“The plane’s landed.” Dean gave a confused look. “We’re in London.” Dean shoved past his brother and rushed off the plane.

“You’re brother…?” the stewardess asked, her British accent catching Sam’s attention.

“Uh… Yeah. I’ll grab his bag,” answered Sam, his own American accent suddenly sounding uncouth. Sam rushed off, waving meekly to the stewardess as he carried his two duffle bags.

“Sam!” Dean’s gruff voice rang through the crowd. “There you are!” He strode quickly toward his brother. He dropped his voice. “You’ve got my bag, right?” Sam silently handed it off, and Dean grinned his signature hunting grin. “Let’s whoop some vengeful spirit ass.” He began to walk away, and Sam walked slightly behind him.

“Dean, I’m pretty sure that didn’t sound as cool as you thought it would.”

“What are you talking about? It sounded awesome.” Dean continued walking.

“No. It didn’t.” Sam began to whip out the sass. “And you say awesome way too much.” 

“No, I don’t.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“Well, I can’t help it that I’m awesome,” Dean retorted as the brothers snuck past customs.

“There you go again!” Sam exclaimed, drawing the attention of some security guards.

“Awesome! Now you’ve done it!” Dean exclaimed sarcastically as he began to sprint to the front door, Sam following right at his heels. They pushed through the crowd, and then stopped suddenly at the automatic doors. You’d think that with the constant stream of people going through, they’d stay open, but no. Dean and Sam waited impatiently until the doors finally recognised them, and they ran out. They saw a man hailing a taxi, and pushed him away, jumping into it to escape. The Winchesters breathed a sigh of relief and asked the taxi to take them to downtown. They decided they’d figure out what to do from there.

After arriving in Central London, Dean stepped out of the taxi while Sam paid the fare. They began to look around for hotels, but were interrupted when an ambulance came rushing by. Sam and Dean decided they’d look to see if maybe this was their ghost’s work, and just as they began to run off in the direction of the ambulance, two men cut them off, running horizontal to the Winchesters’ path.

“Come on, John! It’s quicker this way!” the tall one yelled to the man running behind him.

“Sherlock! Why can’t we just follow the ambulance?” John yelled back. Sherlock shouted something, but the Winchesters couldn’t hear it because he had run too far off. Sam was utterly confused, but Dean had a crazy smile on his face.

“See?” Dean prompted.

“See what?” Sam asked dumbly.

“I TOLD YOU SHERLOCK HOLMES WAS A REAL PERSON!!!” Dean shouted, dancing around in circles.

“You don’t know that that was Sherlock Holmes!” Sam retorted, the ambulance temporarily forgotten. “I’ll bet Sherlock is a very common name in England!”

“No. It’s not. What person in their right mind would put their child through the hell of being named Sherlock? Clearly he has to be special to have that name.” Sam just sighed, and began to walk in the direction of the ambulance, looking for a food joint where they could change into their suits. “Besides, the man with him was called John. Obviously it’s Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.”

“Whatever. Let’s just get changed.” They ate quickly. Dean was fascinated with the fries. He couldn’t believe they were actually called chips, and to him, they tasted better than regular fries. After changing, they realised that FBI and police badges wouldn’t be worth a damn in England.

“What are we gonna do?” Dean asked.

“I have no idea. We don’t have time to go get new I.D.s made, and we don’t even know if they’d be good.”

“Do we still have those Associated Press I.D.s?” Dean asked after a moment of pondering.

“Uhh…” Sam dug around in his bag for a second before brandishing the two shiny badges. “Yeah. Why?”

“Reporters, dude. This is the kind of story that we are totally interested in.” With that, Dean snatched his I.D. and put it inside his coat. He began to walk to the door, and Sam followed along.

 

**** **** **** 

 

They had been standing there for ten minutes, and it seemed that the number of cops had doubled. The Winchesters didn’t realise that London could afford to put so many cops out here. Sherlock and John were already there when the brothers arrived, but either didn’t recognise them, or didn’t acknowledge them.

It became obvious early on to Sam and Dean that the men they had seen earlier had arrived before the police. They observed for a few minutes longer, watching as another police car pulled up. Then, they began to walk toward the scene of the crime.

“Woah, woah, woah,” a cop said. He stopped them, pressing his palms firmly into the boys’ chests. “Gotta have some I.D. or else you won’t be seeing this crime scene.” Dean pulled out his AP badge, and Sam followed his brother’s lead.

“Associated Press. We’re here about the case,” Dean said, sounding official as he put his best front forward. The cop scrutinized them both before pulling up the yellow tape and allowing them to pass under.

“What are those horrible Americans doing here?” a sharp voice asked suddenly. Dean and Sam whipped their heads around, only to be greeted by a stern face to match the voice.  
“No offense to America, but you two seem very dull. Associated Press? Not likely.” The man stepped forward and lowered his voice. “More like vigilantes. But, I won’t tell my friends here that. Not yet at least. I’d like to see how you fit into this puzzle.” Sam couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“How would you know if we’re Associated Press or not?” Sam blurted.

“Well, if that weren’t give away enough,” the man laughed sarcastically. “Your shoes are scuffed. Associated Press would either keep their shoes in good shape, or get newer shoes. These look to be, oh, ten years old. Also, your coats are a cheap fabric. There are pulls on the sleeves that suggest that you were running through, bushes, perhaps, but from what? And the suits. Ugh.” The odd man grimaced. “They’re atrocious. Associated Press would never wear a thrift shop suit. I’m sure neither of you have even touched a tailored suit before, have you?” The Winchesters couldn’t believe their ears. Dean was fuming.

“You’re a psychopath,” Dean growled, voice matching the pitch of the other’s.

“No. I’m a high-functioning sociopath,” the man spat back, clearly offended. He scoffed, and walked away, muttering, “Why doesn’t anybody understand that?” A shorter, more normal man rushed up.

“I am so sorry, gentlemen. Sherlock’s too full of himself to apologise for analyzing everyone he meets. Maybe that’s why I’m his only friend…” the new man rambled. Dean’s eyes widened like a school girl’s.

“Sherlock? As in, Sherlock Holmes?” Dean gasped.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s him. A bit loony, I’m afraid, but then, I can’t say much. I run around and help him so…” He trailed off again. “Dr. John Watson, by the way.” John stuck his hand out for Dean to shake. Dean took his hand.

“Well, since Sherlock figured out that we’re not really AP, we might as well tell you who we really are. Dean Winchester. And this is my brother Sam.” Dean smiled a bit. He was meeting people who weren’t supposed to exist.

“Winchester? That name sounds familiar…” John pondered a bit, and then his eyebrows scrunched together in worry. “You two were on America’s Most Wanted!” John whispered. “You are supposed to be dead!”

“So we’ve heard…” Sam joked darkly. “Then again, I thought you and Mr. Sociopath over there were just fictional characters.”

“Pardon?” John asked. Dean and Sam exchanged a look.

“Never mind,” Dean interjected. “The point is, we’ve got a feeling that we can help you.”

“Oh, Sherlock doesn’t like help. He can damn near solve a case by himself.” John shook his head. The three turned to see Sherlock yelling at a cop, whom the Winchesters presumed was named Anderson judging by the shouts of Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes was just as one would imagine a “high-functioning sociopath” who calls himself a “consulting detective.” His crazy, black, curly hair fell in front of frost blue eyes, cold and calculating. His face itself was like chiseled marble, with high, prominent cheek bones and a distinct jawline. He had a tall and lean frame, reminiscent of Count Olaf. Sherlock donned a long, black trench coat and a blue scarf. As he yelled at Anderson, a kind of anger that bordered on insanity flashed in his icy eyes.

On the other hand, John Watson was more pleasing to the eye, so to speak. He radiated a warmth and friendliness that perfectly complimented the coldness of his friend. He was shorter than Sherlock by nearly a head, and he tended to opt for trousers and a sweater. Though kind-faced and generally optimistic, he showed a weariness that one can only obtain through war. Dean recognised this immediately, noting that John was probably a war veteran. John was quick witted and kept Sherlock in check when his superiority complex got too out of hand.

All in all, they seemed like an efficient pair, and despite the fact that it was obvious that John followed Sherlock like a lost puppy, he seemed very happy doing his job. Sam was jealous; he wished that he could be happy with his job. He loved traveling with his brother, but their job was taxing.

Sam was, in his way, similar to Sherlock. He, like the British detective, was tall, and his hair was even more unruly than Holmes’. Unlike Sherlock’s, Sam Winchester’s hair was straight, and it was much longer than Sherlock’s. He had a kind face, and his eyes showed hope, no matter the situation. He tended to smile, always trying to be optimistic, but sometimes it just didn’t work. Sometimes he slipped into an unexplainable depression. Sometimes he remembered being in the cage, being in Hell. Dean didn’t know, but it happened. More frequently than he’d like to admit.

Dean had a weary look similar to John’s, except it wasn’t from war. It was from 4 months spent in Hell, which is about 40 years of Hell time. Dean was tanned from hunting his whole life, while Sam opted to stay in the motels and read as a child. Dean also knew a thing or two by instinct, while Sam’s field of expertise was research. Dean loathed having his brother around. He loved him, but something was wrong with Sam, and he just wanted Sam out of the line of fire. He’d give his life for Sam.

“Sherlock,” John said. “Would you mind explaining what happened?” Sherlock scoffed.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Sherlock turned to John. “Come here.” John turned to the Winchesters and motioned for them to follow. “Are you really bringing those Americans over here?” He sighed. “Fine. We’ll see just how bright you two are.” John, Sam, and Dean approached the corpse, and Sam’s nose crinkled in disgust. This was by far one of the more disgusting things he’d seen. “John, tell me what happened.” John studied the corpse for a minute.

“There’s a small puncture wound at the jugular. Looks like a syringe. No finger prints. This guy must be good. But how could you get peanut butter through a syringe?” John started. Sam and Dean exchanged impressed looks.

“You two try,” Sherlock instructed. “Good work, John.” Dean stepped forward.

“Well, there’s ectoplasm seeping out of his ear, so it’s definitely a spirit,” Dean said, swiping his finger in the black goo and sniffing it. “Oh, and it’s a nasty one, Sam. We’re gonna have our hands full.”

“Ectoplasm?” Sherlock asked incredulously. “You can’t possibly believe this is a ghost!”

“Yeah, well it is,” Sam sassed back. “That black goo is ectoplasm, left behind after ghost possession. But something doesn’t seem right.”

“What could that possibly be?” Sherlock mused sarcastically. “The fact that you’re theorising ghost possession?”

“No. This isn’t the way that ghosts like to operate. They like the death to be bloody,” Dean answered. His eyebrows crinkled together. “You don’t think someone could be controlling it, do you?” he asked Sam.

“I guess it’s possible, but I’ve never seen or heard of it happening.” Sam seemed just as concerned as his brother. “Do you think we oughta ask Cas?”

“Eh. Cas is trying to get the angels back under control. Remember? Let’s wait until we absolutely have to ask him,” Dean replied.

“You two are stark mad. And coming from me, that’s a horrible thing to hear,” Sherlock scoffed.

“We hear that a lot, pretty boy. We’re used to it.” Dean brushed off Sherlock’s comment. “Anyway, we know what we’re talking about.” Dean turned to a cop standing around. “Excuse me, but is this the first victim?”

“Oh no, sir. There are two others,” she answered politely. Sam’s eyes lit up.

“Could we see the corpses? Just for the story, of course,” asked Sam. He turned up the charm, and the cop smiled. “Sure, boys. They’re at the Harold Wood Hospital. Show them your badges, and you should be set.” Dean and Sam nodded in gratitude and started to walk away. Sherlock spoke up again as they walked away.

“Anderson, get your filthy hands off of the corpse! You’re going to ruin the evidence!” Anderson mumbled something inaudibly, and Sherlock turned to the same cop the Winchesters had just spoken with. “May I take this back to the lab?”

“Of course, Mr. Holmes. It’s all yours.”

 

**** **** ****

 

“I don’t know, Sherlock. They could be right,” John said wistfully. Sherlock struck a horrible chord on his violin.

“How can you say that, John?” Sherlock turned toward his flat-mate. “Have you ever seen evidence of ghosts, or demons, or monsters?! How do we know they aren’t completely insane or out to make us look bad?!” Sherlock’s eyes burned with anger. John stood up.

“Exactly! How would you possibly know if they’re telling the truth if you won’t give them a chance?!” John challenged. Sherlock’s face relaxed into a smile.

“Wow. You are challenging me. I like it. Maybe you’ve got a point.”

“That was easier than I thought…” John muttered. Sherlock laughed insanely.

“First, you’re going to research everything that can be found about them.” Sherlock’s grin widened as he saw John sigh. He had become accustomed to doing research, on the off chance that Sherlock actually needed to know something.

“Then what are you going to do?” John asked.

“I’m going to practice my violin. I’m working on a new composition.” John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock cut him off. “And yes, I will finish this one.” John smiled a little, glancing at the bin that had been filled with thrown out, incomplete compositions.

John did the research. He searched for a couple days, looking up all of their police records. He had been right. They had been on the “America’s Most Wanted” list in 2011. He had also been correct in that they were legally dead. He pondered at how they could pull that off, but it was the least of his worries. They had multitudes of accounts of credit card and identity fraud. They also had accounts of impersonating policeman, state troopers, reporters, and maintenance men. As it turned out, they had been thought dead once years earlier, but that was revoked. They have been listed as dead for good this time. After scourging deep into the depths of the internet, he came across something that could help prove his point to Sherlock.

“Sherlock, come here,” he said, not looking away from the screen.

“What do you want? I’m almost done.” Despite his annoyance, he came over and looked over John’s shoulder at the blog pulled up. Across the top of the screen, the title said “GHOSTFACERS” and beneath was a picture of two very geeky kids. Or maybe they were adults; John couldn’t tell. “What the hell is this?” John didn’t answer. He pressed the play button on the video underneath their picture. The video was titled “Ghost Hunting.”

John’s laptop went black as the video started. The two geeks from the picture appeared in white lab coats, saying that they know how to solve ghost-related problems. Sherlock began to become aggravated because these guys were bumbling idiots. John had to keep from laughing at how ridiculous it was.

“Next little trick,” one of the geeks said. “We learned this from those useless douchebags-“

“That we hate,” the other one interrupted. The first guy, Ed, continued.

“The Winchesters.” John paused the video, eyes wide, and looked up at Sherlock.

“Well I guess maybe they weren’t lying…” John said, a little stunned.

“Time to test them,” Sherlock said. “Dean gave you his phone number, right?”

“Uh yeah,” John said, standing up and fumbling in his pockets for the piece of paper. “Here it is.”

“Call them. Tell them to meet us at Harold Wood in half an hour.” Sherlock turned away, turning over the idea of ghosts existing as John called the Winchesters. He faintly heard John tell him that the Winchesters had agreed as he pulled on his coat and blue scarf and rushed out to get a taxi, leaving John to scramble out the door just in time to catch the door.

 

**** **** ****

 

As it turned out, Sam, too, had been doing research. While Dean researched what they could be dealing with, Sam dug around to see what he could find on John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was a pure genius; there was no questioning. He had also, in fact, faked his own death. John, too, was very smart, but not up to Sherlock’s level. John had been an army doctor before moving in with Sherlock and becoming his assistant/friend in 2010. Sherlock considered himself a “consulting detective,” whatever the hell that meant. Apparently Sherlock had faked his own death, but Sam didn’t pry. He wasn’t sure how that worked out because Sherlock obviously had never encountered anything supernatural before. He worked with the police whenever they seemed to be out of their element, and Sam found that he also worked with private companies.

Overall, Sam could see why Sherlock and John had thought the Winchesters crazy. They didn’t work with things like this. Sam was fascinated by Sherlock’s personal blog, “The Science of Deduction.” He was pulled back into reality when Dean’s phone rang. Dean answered.

“Hello?” He paused, and Sam looked up.

“Hello, Dean? It’s John. Watson,” John said awkwardly.

“Right. Did Sherlock finally decide to trust us?”

“Yeah. Especially because he can’t find any possible way to get peanut butter in a syringe. He figured you might know. Plus, the Ghostfacers mentioned you…” John chuckled a bit.

“The Ghostfacers?! Those guys are still trying to hunt ghosts?!” Dean laughed. Sam wasn’t sure what the conversation was necessarily about, but Ed and Harry were jokes.

“Sherlock wants you to meet us at Harold Wood in 30 minutes. Can you do that?” John asked.

“Yeah. We’ll see you there.” Dean hung up. Sam twisted around in the chair to face his brother. “Come on, Sammy. We’re going to look at some corpses.” Dean smiled sarcastically, and Sam stood up.

“Oh, yes,” Sam replied, his sarcasm matching Dean’s. “My favourite thing to do.” He pulled on his coat, following Dean out the door. “And don’t call me Sammy.”

 

**** **** ****

 

Exactly twenty seven minutes later, the Winchesters arrived in front of Harold Wood Hospital. As they climbed out of the taxi, Sherlock poked his head out of the front door.

“Finally!” he shouted, clearly exasperated with the Winchesters. “You’re late!”

“What are you talking about?” Sam snapped. “You said to meet in 30 minutes. Here we are, 3 minutes early.” He glanced down at his watch. “Uh… 2 minutes early.”

“Being on time means you’re late. The most important things happen before everyone else is there.” Sam and Dean exchanged glances before walking in, catching the door as Sherlock let it swing closed.

“Has anything changed since it happened?” Dean asked. John cleared his throat as Sherlock and the Winchesters entered the room.

“Well, the autopsy report came back…” John started. “Apparently her heart exploded.”

“I’m sorry. What?” Sam asked incredulously.

“Yeah. I’m not sure how that happened.”

“Well did any of the other vic’s hearts explode?” Dean asked.

“No.” Sherlock looked up from examining the corpse. “And that is our killer’s mistake.”

“What do you mean?” Dean questioned.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Dean and Sam gave confused looks, and even John didn’t seem sure of what was going on. “Oh come on! You ordinary people! The killer put too much peanut butter in her system!” Suddenly, Sherlock’s nose wrinkled in confusion. “But how?! How can you put peanut butter in a syringe?! It’s not a liquid!” Silence fell over the room, and the clock ticked quietly. They were all lost in thought. John looked up and saw Dean’s eyes widen in realization.

“Yes. You can,” he said quietly.

“What?” John asked. Sherlock looked up and Sam turned toward his brother.

“You can put peanut butter in a syringe. I’ve seen it!” Dean started smiling manically.

“Where did you see it?” Sherlock asked.

“On the Food Network!” Dean beamed with pride. Sam started to laugh.

“Why were you watching Food Network?” Sam asked between pants, trying to regain his breath.

“You were off hunting with Ruby and there was nothing else on.” Dean scowled slightly, then turned back to Sherlock and John. “There’s a special kind of peanut butter used for baking that is a liquid. The idea is that you put it in a syringe and insert peanut butter filling in pastries. When the peanut butter reaches a certain temperature, it starts to solidify.” Sherlock’s face became a crazy grin.

“Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!” Sherlock exclaimed. “But how do we find the killer?”

“Well, Dean and I had a theory. We think someone’s controlling a spirit to do this. So, if we find the witch, we can end the killings,” Sam offered.

“And how do you suppose we do that?” John questioned.

“Easy. Find out the similarities between the victims. If we can trace them all back to one person or place, we can find our culprit.”

 

**** **** ****

 

Dean and Sam went down to the police station. Sherlock had to tell Inspector LeStrade that they had permission, but finally they could look at the reports and backgrounds of the various victims. After a while, the Winchesters noticed that, though the victims didn’t know each other, they all seemed to be connected in some way to a man named Henry Clark. Dean immediately called Sherlock.

“What?” Sherlock asked impatiently. Dean sighed, completely exasperated. Sherlock had been so rude to them, thinking they were idiots. They couldn’t deny that he was much smarter than them, but they weren’t stupid, and he didn’t listen hard enough to notice.

“Have you ever heard of a man named Henry Clark?” Dean asked, equally as impatient.

“No.” Dean heard a rustling, and heard Sherlock speak away from the receiver. “John, have you ever heard of a Henry Clark?”

“Not that I remember. Why?” John answered. There was more rustling.

“Why do you ask, Dean?” Sherlock questioned.

“All of the vics were connected to him in some way, though not connected to each other.”

“Okay. What do I do with that information?”

“Find out about Clark’s past,” Dean ordered.

“Fine. We can do that.” Without another word, Sherlock hung up. Sam immediately pointed out something to Dean.

“What, Sam?”

“Well, while you were on the phone, I went and found the file for this Henry Clark,” Sam began.

“And?”

“He’s still alive.” Dean’s eyes widened before he snatched away the file and looked at it himself.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean cursed. “What do we do?”

“Dean, maybe he’s just some psycho serial killer,” Sam suggested slowly.

“Sam!” Dean turned on his brother, jaw set. “You saw that ectoplasm and smelled it as clearly as I did. What else could be going on?!”

“Maybe we were right; maybe he’s a witch. Why don’t we find out information on his house? We’ve got his address right here; we can see if it’s ever been haunted. That would explain the ectoplasm.” Dean rubbed his forehead.

“Alright. Yeah, let’s do that.” He stood up, and Sam followed suit. They put away the files they had except for Henry Clark’s. On their way out, they asked LeStrade if they could keep this file, and he agreed because he thought it was a ridiculous lead.

As it turned out, Henry Clark was about as normal as normal comes. He’d never had any offences, not even driving tickets, but, then again, he didn’t own a car. He had been a model student in high school, and never tried drugs or anything. There was no reason why he’d murder anybody. Dean was getting frustrated, and Sam was becoming depressed. Sherlock thought it was worth looking, and John thought that they knew what they were dealing with.

“Dean, do you think maybe he’s possessed?” Sam asked suddenly on their way back from 221B Baker Street, the home of Sherlock and John.

“What do you mean? By a ghost?”

“No. By a demon. A ghost would have to have incentive, whereas a demon will kill anybody.”

“Then how do you explain the ectoplasm?” Dean veered off in the direction of a local pub, and Sam ran to catch up considering he had been walking toward the hotel.

“I know you don’t like when I talk about this, but when He,” Sam sneered, “was in my head, well he told me a few things. Said we could cover the demons’ tracks by creating artificial ectoplasm. Maybe that’s what happened here.”

“Sam. That’s ridiculous.”

“Well, you never know! It’s worth looking into!” Sam had stopped on the sidewalk and had begun yelling.

“Fine,” Dean consented. He walked ahead and Sam jogged to keep up. “Fine.” He grumbled to himself about something. “Here’s the plan: we’ll go interview Henry Clark and look around to see if there’s some sort of ‘ectoplasm lab’. Then we can go form there.”

“Dean, it’s not like searching for a meth lab; it’d be very subtle.” Sam’s face morhped into his “thinking face” and he fell quiet for a while. “Maybe it’d be better to let Sherlock and John interview him away from his place while we search for something.”

“Yeah. That’s a great idea,” Dean admitted. They had reached their hotel. “Should we call them and ask them to? We oughtta get it done tonight.”

“I guess. I mean, we just left, but maybe Sherlock won’t be too pissy.” Sam gestured for Dean to call them while he unlocked the door. Dean grimaced.

“Dude...” he groaned. “Do I have to?” Sam smirked evilly. “Awesome. Really just... fantastic.” Dean’s voice faded off at the end as he resigned himself to calling John and Sherlock. Sherlock had relented and given them his phone number, but Dean preferred talking to John. He punched in the number and awkwardly fidgeted with his jacket while it rang. Sam chuckled to himself because Dean had opted for standing in the doorway. Finally, John picked up.

“Hello, Dean,” John said happily.

“Hey. Look, I know we just left, but is there any way that you and Sherlock could interview Henry Clark sometime tonight?” John could hear the stress in Dean’s voice and figured it was important.

“I’m sure we could. Does it have to be tonight?”

“Well, Sammy and I were going to have a look around his house to see if we can find anything that might clue us in to what he’s up to, if he’s up to anything.”

“Okay... So it needs to happen somewhere else...?” John sounded a little apprehensive.

“Basically, yes.” John sighed. He should’ve known that these men were experts at breaking into people’s houses. He put a hand over the receiver and turned to Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” Sherlock popped his head out of the kitchen, eyes covered with goggles and holding an eyeball in his hand.

“What?” he roared. “Can’t you see that I’m busy?!”

“The Winchesters need us to interview Henry Clark!” Sherlock’s eyes brightened, and he threw the eyeball back into a dish. He rushed out, pulling off his gloves and goggles.

“Then let’s find Henry Clark and take him out to dinner.” Sherlock rushed back to his room and shut the door. John took his hand off the receiver.

“Apparently we’re in. One of us will text you when we’ve left.”

“Thanks guys,” Dean said. He was obviously relieved. “We’ll talk to you later.” John and Dean hung up at the same time. Dean sat on the bed he had claimed as his. Sam was stretched out, hands behind his head. He turned to look at Dean when Dean sat down.

“Well?” he asked impatiently.

“They’re gonna text me when they’ve left.” Dean swung his legs up on the bed. “Do you think we should go mill around there while we wait, or should we just wait to hear from them?” Dean flopped into a position similar to Sam’s.

“Where is Henry Clark’s apartment?” Sam asked. “You’re the one who looked at the map.”

“It’s not too far from Baker Street, so we could probably walk there in about 15 minutes.” Dean’s phone buzzed, and the screen lit up. It read John Watson Text Message (1).

“Just left for Clark’s house. Should be there in 7 minutes by SH’s estimate. Be ready,” Dean read aloud.

“I think that answers your question, Dean.” Sam stood and pulled his shoes back on. Dean rolled off the bed. “Let’s go.” Sam walked out the door, and Dean followed, pulling out the key and locking the door. They headed toward Baker Street.

As they rounded the corner onto Henry Clark’s street, Sam’s phone buzzed.

“Clark has left with us. Don’t take too long. -SH” Sam read. “How did Sherlock get my phone number?!” Sam was freaked out.

“I don’t know. Apparently he does that to everyone. Or that’s what John told me.” Dean shrugged. “Let’s just get going. They clearly don’t know how long they can keep him occupied.”

The Winchesters made their way to Henry’s apartment building. They walked inside, calmly, so as not to give off any suspicious vibes. A man in the lobby turned toward them, but he seemed to look through them. The brothers paid him no attention. As they turned away, the man grinned and his eyes turned black.

Dean lead the way upstairs, and when they reached Henry Clark’s front door, he looked around while Sam picked the lock. Sam quietly opened the door. The building seemed too quiet, but the Winchesters didn’t think twice. They wouldn’t be surprised if something suspicious was happening. The place seemed totally normal. 

“Hey, Dean,” Sam whispered. Dean came over and stood over his brother’s shoulder. “Does it seem too quiet to you?”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

“Do you have the knife?” Dean nodded. “Good, because I think we’re in for some trouble.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because I found some of the ectoplasm, but it doesn’t smell as strong.”

“Maybe it hasn’t fermented long enough?” Dean suggested.

“Maybe...” Sam furrowed his brow, and Dean stooped down to match his brother’s level when the door crashed in. The brothers jumped up and turned around. Dean brandished Ruby’s knife and Sam pulled an angel blade out of his pocket. Angel blades could kill anything, so it was lucky he had it. The man from the lobby stood in the doorway, smirking. His eyes turned black, and he stepped forward.

“The Winchesters are now international, huh?” he joked.

“Shut up,” Dean commanded.

“Not yet. See, I know you two think that Henry Clark is the one possessed, but you’re wrong.” He took another step forward. Dean lunged and the demon flicked his wrist. Dean went flying across the room and was lying sprawled on the floor. The demon forced Sam against a wall and held him there. “Oh look. Poor wittle Sammy is all lonesome now,” he cooed. The demon laughed, the mockery causing Sam to struggle against the demon’s will. Sam managed to kick his flask of holy water across the room, and then gave up. He was out of luck now.

“You Winchesters really are hopelessly pathetic,” said a new voice from across the room. If Sam hadn’t known better, he might have thought it was another demon; but he recognised the voice. It was Sherlock.

“Sherlock!” Sam exclaimed before the demon took his voice. Sherlock stooped down. He might not have known anything about demons, but he’d heard things. Holy water would be effective. And knowing the Winchesters, this flask was what he needed.

“Excuse me,” Sherlock said. The demon turned around and clicked its tongue. Sherlock unscrewed the cap on the flask and sloshed water on it. He screamed in pain and clawed at his face. The demon’s hold on Sam dropped and he surged forward with the angel blade, but missed. Dean groaned from the corner.

“Sherlock, throw more on him!” Sherlock, for once, obeyed. “Dean, I’ll hold him if you’ll use Ruby’s knife!” Sam grabbed the demon by the arms and held him still. Dean got up shakily and walked forward.

“You are not gonna get away with this,” Dean said angrily. He took one more step forward before plunging the knife deep into the demon’s gut. Sherlock stood, amazed, as the demon died. He saw something like lightning flash through the demon’s body before Dean removed the knife. The demon slumped forward.

“Sherlock! What’s going on? I saw a flash as I came up to the door...?” John tumbled over his words as he rushed into the room. Sam took the angel blade and twisted it inside the demon’s gut to make sure of the kill. John was appalled.

“It was a demon,” Sam said unapologetically. John nodded slowly.

“Right. Should I call the police?” John asked.

“Let someone find him,” Sherlock replied. “We need to get going.”

 

**** **** ****

 

John and Sherlock stood outside the door to the airport, the Winchesters standing in front of them. The brothers simply carried duffle bags.

“Well...” John started. Before he could get the words out, Sherlock spoke up.

“Thank you.” His words were sincere. “We honestly would have had no idea what to do if it weren’t for you, despite your unfortunate heritage.”

“We’re glad to help,” Sam answered honestly.

“If you need us,” Dean said, “just call.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this before Sherlock season 3 came out, so the whole eyeball thing is purely coincidence. I'm slightly amused by it, though.


End file.
